


What Remains

by Nonplayer_Character



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (liberties were taken), Canon compliant-ish, F/F, Moments of introspection and trigger warning for thoughts on parental death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 13:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10309682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonplayer_Character/pseuds/Nonplayer_Character
Summary: Fareeha never thought she would have to navigate a world in which her mother was not a constant fixture.In the aftermath of Ana's death, however, adjustments must be made; new paths forged. And through all of this, Dr. Ziegler is there.





	1. Chapter 1

In the mid-afternoon sun, the summer heat leaving burning skin in its wake, Fareeha is stationary, laying low in the shaded barracks of the base in Egypt where she is stationed. (A relief, her last deployment had seen her out of country.) She has got her own quarters, which is a comfort, but the air is stifling with the lack of central AC. Fareeha is staring out the window from her place at her desk's chair. The sky is blue, bright blue, the sun is streaming patches of yellow-almost-white light on her white linoleum-tiled floor in her little white room.

She has always been resilient to hot weather, a by-product of her environment growing up, and a stubbornness to her mother’s constant hovering (with requests to wear sunscreen, or avoid direct exposure). Fareeha, defiant and determined, even in her youth, had neglected both. Although the health ramifications have yet to catch up with her (they will, it is only time, the lack of it, which has been her guardian), it cannot be said that she is susceptible to the effects of a glaring heatwave, at least. The yellow patches of sun, the clear blue sky, they do not effect her.

Not that it matters.

Not that anything particularly matters anymore.

 

* * *

 

Fareeha is twenty-five years old and her mother is dead.

The words resonate in her mind like an echo: _my mother is dead._

Although she knows them to be true - she has been repeating this mantra in her mind for hours - she has, until this very moment, yet to _experience_ true loss. The pain of it bleeds out of her without any understanding. Earlier, she threw up; now tears leak from her eyes like condensation on glass with no distinct point of origin or final destination. Her left hand furls into a fist in her military-grade khaki pants, her knuckles white from the grip. In part, she feels as though she must cry; in part, she does not know why it is she does.

Even as tears fall, she sits in disbelief.

Her mother? Impossible. Ana Amari is a lot of things; but she is all of them _alive_. Anything less than that feels surreal. Feels wrong in a way which turns Fareeha’s entire world sideways, and then inverted. _Impossible_ , she thinks, numb _._

Someone knocks on her door, says a bit reserved: _“Fa- Amari?_ ” Fareeha turns towards the sound but does not move from her seat. The room is too bright, the voice, too sincere. The quiet, unsure ring of it brings moisture back to Fareeha’s eyes. She cannot take their kindness; it affirms what she is not ready to believe.

After a minute, maybe a couple, maybe a dozen, maybe an hour - who can tell? - she hears a sigh, footsteps down the corridor, and the person is gone.  

 

* * *

 

It had been Angela Ziegler who delivered the news.

Fareeha had not really remembered her up until the point she had walked across the training field: black jeans, white shirt, gold hair. Fareeha had been shooting targets with her hand gun, enjoying the breeze, the way the sand grazed her forearms with it; the way the early afternoon sun, not quiet at the apex of the sky, set the world on fire in beautiful bronze, reflecting off the tan tones of the ground, not hot - yet - but on its way.

When Angela approached her, a few seconds were invested in dredging up a long-forgotten memory. Angela Ziegler? A med student, visiting someone - an uncle? - at the Overwatch base. Fareeha, a little younger, also visiting Overwatch; Ana's assignment had been months long, she wouldn't be able to come home for awhile so Fareeha had gone to see her. And then another memory: not two years ago, during a phone call with her mother, Ana telling Fareeha that Angela had joined Overwatch officially. _Do you remember her, habibti?_

 _Vaguely_ , Fareeha had responded.

Now, Fareeha cannot think of anyone else. Angela Ziegler - bearer of lies and breaker of realities. Fareeha had stared intently at a freckle on the woman's neck, and thought mildly that it was cute, as Dr. Ziegler had recounted the facts - the presumed facts. Fareeha had thanked her before she'd walked back from whatever nightmarish reality had brought her. The sun now stifling, the brightness of the day now too much, blinding almost.

 _Fareeha had thanked_ _her_.

The truth of it is, Fareeha does not have anyone else without her mother.

Her squadmates? Whom she would die for, but could not list the favorite colors of?

Her father, halfway across the world, who she talks to once a month? He is good intentioned and he is kind, but he is removed, independent of her. Independent of her life. He does his duties to her, but he is preoccupied by his own world.

And: Ana has never told Fareeha anything about life after life. Fareeha thinks now, that she has never thought to ask before ... had her mother been afraid to die? For how vehemently she had avoided the conversation; opposed it when it did surface. Even in their line of work, it never seemed particularly important to ask. As far as Fareeha had been concerned, Ana would outlive them all.

And: Ana and Fareeha have been intertwined since Fareeha was born. Ana is her tether to morality, even in their moments of hostility - _and their had been no shortage of them_ \- Fareeha calls her weekly; still asks her about the weather, her mother's missions … weeks ago, she had asked for help on how to file for her benefits properly. (Fareeha is twenty-five, old enough to die for her country, but still so unsure about how to be a proper adult.)

And: Fareeha and Ana had been fighting for the better part of two years. Their conversations, while frequent, had been terse with things unsaid. To be discussed at a later time. They had both assumed there would be a later time. _Ana aasifa, ami._

 _My mother is dead,_ thinks Fareeha, and doesn’t believe herself.

She looks at her mobile, looks at it hard and for a very, very long time. She should confirm. She needs some sort of confirmation. She needs … something (a denial - she wants to be told that she has misunderstood. That Ana is out there, somewhere, hurt or missing, but not dead. Never dead). Dr. Ziegler had told her to call if she needed anything. Fareeha guesses this is probably not what she meant. Still, she dials. It rings twice.

_"Grüezi?"_

“Dr. Ziegler?” Fareeha says, bewildered, almost. There is a delay, and then

“ _Yes_ ,” the woman responds, her voice is soft, careful. Fareeha wonders if she has had training for these situations, or if Dr. Ziegler is a naturally calming presence. It is probably both of these things.

“This is Fareeha … Amari,” Fareeha says, and is not sure where she is going - really. She just needs to hear it again; or else a denial - ideal: a denial.

Angela’s voice is sympathetic when she responds, Fareeha knows she is choosing careful words and the kindness, again, brings maddening pressure to her eyes. She has a headache, already, a pain in the pit of her stomach which feels like what the onset of a heart attack might feel like, if Fareeha had to guess. She grips her stomach through her over-shirt, the fabric scrunching up, she feels the sun's ray through the open window - previously stopped by the cover of the shirt - burn against the patch of skin on her exposed hip. It does nothing to alleviate the unrest there. The emotional pain is bad, the way it manifests physically makes her feel sick. Makes her wish she could sleep until it all melted away, or else see her mother and have this nightmare ended. 

 _“How can I help you, Fareeha?”_ she asks, softly. Fareeha grinds her teeth, unsure, and then responds.

“Is it … really true?”

The awful reality of it is, in Fareeha’s initial shock upon Angela having told her anything, she hadn’t asked any _questions_. Hadn’t known to, or thought to. _Who did it? Was it quick? What do you mean you couldn't find her body? ... Do you think she was happy?_ She’d listened. She’d been informed. And then she’d watched Angela say _I’m sorry_ , and leave. “The things you told me earlier… Is my mother … is she...?” There’s a brief moment of screaming silence before Angela responds.

 _“Yes, Fareeha,”_ she says, _“I’m so sorry."_

For a very long time, neither of them speak.

“Alright,” Fareeha tells her, “I have to go.”

 _“I’m here,"_ Angela tells her, " _if you need anything." _ And Fareeha says okay again, not caring, and hangs up.

 

* * *

 

Fareeha cleans her gun after calling Angela, unsure of what else to do. Unsure of who to speak to or for what reason. It feels like isolation, but truly - Fareeha feels as though she has no one.

She dismantles in completely, lays it out on the rough wooden top of her desk, begins swabbing out the bits of it, clearing away anything that may clog the mechanisms, her mind is not on the task - it is miles away (this is muscle memory) - before it dawns on her that she needs to go to Switzerland.

Even if Ana’s body is not found, there will no doubt be things to attend to. Shutting down bank accounts and liquidating assets and cleaning her mother's sparingly used office at the Overwatch base. Packing up her apartment there. The legal stuff she hates so much. Everything. Anything? Fareeha does not know. It overwhelms her.

Fareeha is twenty-five years old, she does not know how to handle these things because she has never imagined a time where she would need to.

Still, and here is the remarkable thing about Fareeha Amari: she makes a plan, she thinks _objectives_. She stands up, leaves her gun half assembled on her desk, calls her superior officer from the cab on the way to the airport. She has packed clothes for two days and her military uniform - she imagines she will be there for no less than a week, probably longer, (it's an inadequate pack of supplies) and she feels sick that the uniform she packed is with the anticipation that she will be attending a funeral. _Her mother’s funeral._

She cannot imagine what the flight will be like. All those hours with only her thoughts. She cannot imagine any of this, really.

And yet she moves forward. Because that is what she has always done.

She boards a plane and stares forward, unmoving, and unmotivated to listen to music, or watch the in-flight movie, or do anything else.

She sends a text to Dr. Ziegler. Formal and short and too much:

_Are you able to pick me up from the airport? My flight lands at 22:30._

A cab would also be appropriate. Fareeha imagines she will stay at Ana's apartment. Where else would she go?

Just before take off, she gets her response:

_Of course, I will be there._

 

* * *

 

For hours Fareeha only thinks. _My mother is dead; I do not have a mother_ ; all those years where Ana was exactly twenty-eight years and a number of months, days, minutes older than her, now Fareeha is closing a gap she should not have to. Fareeha thinks idly that by the time she dies - she will have lived more of her life without a mother than with one and it burns like acid in her throat, in the synapses which process the information. It burns every part of her, not quite drowned out by the white noise of a plane moving through air. _This isn’t fair. This isn’t right._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Fareeha leaves the Egyptian military as soon as physically possible. Her psych evaluations had been monthly and had shown no immediate threat to herself or others and her deployment: another three months.  Still, when the time comes to reenlist, Fareeha chooses to be discharged.

Everything about the military reminds her of her mother, the regiment, the quiet, the action. 

The lack of phone calls when they are permitted is perhaps the worst. Fareeha stared blankly at the phone, having no one to call. She is glad to be free of it. 

It all hurts a bit less; when she does not think for long periods of time about anything particularly. She has started running more, writing frequently - not about herself, but other things. She spends very little time in her apartment, choosing to be out in the sun, its constant onslaught a kind of comfort on her burning skin. 

The strange thing is managing the grief with the moments of contentedness. Fareeha is not sure she has grasped it yet. She feels guilty that she is happy to be here. Guilty when she realizes she has gone more than an hour without thinking of Ana. Life, now, is a balancing act. 

She is at a cafe, going through her mail, her sunglasses low on her nose when she receives a letter from Dr. Ziegler. It comes in a purple envelope, stamps of cross-countries travel bleed into the paper. 

Fareeha hasn’t talked with anyone in Overwatch. She keeps up with the news, sees their disbanding, the fall of their glory, the rise of tensions with the omnics. But she has not talked with them. That was her mother’s life, and as much as Fareeha had meant to one day be a part of it; she finds she can’t help but to be distant for no reason she wants to articulate. The world moves around her like a whirlpool; and she is an eagle above it - aware because of the lack of places to land, but unconcerned because it is not her terrain anymore. At a distance, she has chosen to distance herself. 

All the same, she opens the letter, skims it once, and then reads it closer. 

Angela is back in Switzerland. Overwatch has washed away and her focus is elsewhere. The middle east, specifically, she says. She intends to go there to offer aid in the next week or so. Given the time stamp, Fareeha guesses she is already there. 

Between the casual tone of the letter there are deeper questions. 

_ “We have not heard from you…”  _ one line says, and later:  _ “I received a denial of connection not so long ago. I tried to call you. I hope the military is not sending you anywhere particularly dangerous.”  _ Fareeha knows the question is prodding, that Angela has probably guessed that Fareeha has left, though does not want to say it out-right incase she is wrong.

Fareeha reads the letter a few more times and then slumps into her chair, blinking blankly into the horizon, dusted purple on orange on red in the way of a setting sun. 

What can be said? 

Fareeha knows she has all but cut herself off, she has always been a bit of an introvert - maybe as a byproduct of her mother; not unlike a storm and never shy to speak. Ana was a hurricane. 

Fareeha was much more like a Sunday rainshower. 

Fareeha writes Angela back. 

* * *

 

 

_ “ _ Helix _?” _ Angela says, her voice crackling over the connection.

“Yes,” Fareeha says. She’s doing sit ups, the receiver next to her head: set to speaker. “My superior officer, if I choose to accept, came to talk with me last week. Their technology is experimental. But Angela,” and here Fareeha stops and breathes deeply, looking at the phone though she knows Angela cannot know. She is glistening in sweat, her hair sticking to her forehead. The sun is heavy on her stomach and the sand and drift of the earth is sticking to her back. The heat of the pavement keeps her from laying completely flat onto her exposed back. It’s a better workout this way, anyway. “I could  _ fly _ .”

Angela, set up in a medical tent, chewing on a power bar on one of very few breaks she has been afforded, listens quietly. It had been months of failed communication to reach this tentative friendship. Fareeha still does not call, her way of initiating commuincation is strictly through letters, a slow way, archaic, almost, but she does answers when Angela calls; and can hold a conversation when prompted. It’s a start, at least. (Angela tries not to put stock in this perhaps being because it is  _ her _ calling; but a self-important part of her maintains the small hope.) 

Mostly, Angela is glad to know that Fareeha is … okay, relative to life. She had been in a worrisome state all those months ago, in Switzerland. The radio silence had not helped. Angela wasn’t sure if anyone else would reach out to her, they all were grieving, she knew. But Angela had also seen that strained and stitched relationship between Ana and Fareeha - the genuine love … the sometimes concerning co-dependency. The anger and the denial in their confrontation. Angela had once suggested psychiatry for Ana - that had not gone well. 

Angela is not in the practice of letting the injured suffer, however; so four months after Ana’s death she had reached across the great expanse of isolation. And Fareeha had returned the gesture. 

“It just seems … I do not know; dangerous? _ ”  _ Angela says, after a considerable pause. She hopes Fareeha won’t take her answer as disapproval; that’s not it. Just concern. Angela sets the wrapper of her power bar in the bin beside the table she’s seated at. She hears Fareeha breathing heavily over the connection. Likely finishing a set before she responds. It’s not unsual.    


_ “ _ Ziegler! _ ”  _ One of the medics calls, poking his head into her tent. Angela holds up a finger:  _ One moment - _ and points to the phone. The man nods, whispers:

“Field meeting in five,” and then he’s gone. 

“I am sure that it will be,” Fareeha finally says. There’s rustling, and then her voice is a lot closer, as though she’s taken the call off speaker. “I cannot sit around though,” Fareeha says, and the way her voice lowers is like she is admitting something. “The lack of her presence - just knowing that she is not around - eats me. I need something to work towards again.” Angela hums. 

“Then you should do it,” she says, and bites off saying anything else. Of course, she understands. Her parents are gone, the house she grew up in, the memories are old and the pain is ever-present in her heart. Angela is not unaware of what Fareeha is experiencing. She is aware that even so, nothing can be said which will lessen the emotional toll.

“You think so?” Fareeha says. 

“Hmm,” Angela hums, it is not quite an affirmative. But it is kind and sincere and she hears Fareeha chuckle in a way that is more endeared than humored. It’s a soft sort of resignation. 

_ You will learn to live again _ , Angela thinks.  _ Because there is no other option _ . 

“I have to go to a field meeting,” Angela finally says. “Would you like to talk again tonight?” 

“International calls are expensive,” Fareeha reminds her. 

“A small price,” Angela says. 

“Then, if you are bored - I will be around.”

  
They say their goodbyes and Angela hangs up. The world shifts beneath her feet. She has become accustomed to walking the shifting sands of this life; has learned to embrace the labor of it. She wants, more than anything, for Fareeha to find her footing again. 


	3. Chapter 3

Angela is in the middle of a check up with a young boy, his skin oddly scabbed, his lips cracked, when one of the other researchers ducks into the tent. It's not unusual that they flit from tent to tent, they all have their specialties, and are useful everywhere … they also have limited supplies, aid work is often this way, so if one tent is out, another may not be and so they are everywhere - trying to make the world a little better. Angela doesn’t pay him much mind until he says, quietly:

“Ziegler, there’s a call for you.”

Angela is focused - the boy has a gash on his shin that is festering. If he had come sooner, it would not have been so serious - easy to treat, even - now, it is serious, very serious. There are many, many hard parts of the job. Angela thinks one of the hardest is knowing she could have helped, and being just-barely the wrong side of the right time.

“Can it wait?” Angela says. Her eyes do not stray from the cut she is in the process of disinfecting. 

“It’s-“ he stops, starts again: "It’s from an Egyptian hospital, about a patient there: Fareeha Amari?" Angela’s stomach drops at the same time she turns to look at her colleague. Her mind is already moving faster than it should. Fareeha Amari, who recently joined Helix Security, and who is working with experimental technology (with a privately-funded agenda – another variable). Fareeha, who Angela has been corresponding with for months. Her Fareeha. It's not hard to connect these dots. No, she thinks. No, whatever has happened let it be an error.  She stands in a numb sort of way. Mechanically, she throws away the medical gauze she had been using as an applier, throws away her gloves, pats the boy's good leg and then reaches for the phone.

“Please finish up here,” she tells her colleague. He nods. 

She steps into the bright, bright sun, it immediately warms her already red skin. She has had a sunburn for the entirety of the time she has been here – it is ever-present; it is not good for her. She knows the ramifications, has studied them before, and will again. 

“This is Dr. Angela Ziegler,” she says.

“Dr. Ziegler,” says a voice over the phone, lightly accented, and unfamiliar. “My name is Dr. Omar Rahal.” Something inside Angela twists painfully up into her throat and stays there, lodged like cotton. “I’m calling about Fareeha Amari; you are listed as her emergency contact…” Rahal drifts off. 

Angela did not know she was an emergency contact. (To Fareeha, at least. She knows she is the contact for Lena, and for Winston, both alone in this world save for one another. She knows their records inside and out, too; her memory - like glue - retains this information. Her fear - also like glue - paralyzes her with the knowledge. She never wants them to be in a position where she must be called. If she had known, it would have extended to Fareeha.)

“Yes,” Angela says, her voice is steady and calm and entirely contrasts the way she is feeling, the way her head feels light and, having heard nothing, her eyes already sting with pressure. “Is she alive?” She knows not to ask if she is alright. Angela has made this call before. Worse: Angela has received this call before. (Fourteen years old and unprepared, she’d been so unbelievably unprepared…) 

Angela had delivered this news to Fareeha nearly half a year ago. 

“Yes,” says Rahal. The world orients itself. It is not the same; it is not the same. Angela chokes out a relieved sob. “She is in the intensive care unit, currently. Likely, she will be there for a while…”

He goes on. He explains that an immediate surgery was necessary, that informed consent was not given because she had been unconscious; it had been deemed life-threatening to delay. Angela listens, somewhat dazed. She knows he is telling her more than he would tell others, probably due to a sense of kinship. He has not asked her of her relation to Fareeha, he probably knows it is not a familial one. Angela cuts him off.

“What happened?” She asks. 

“According to her unit’s captain she fell out of the sky,” Rahal says, and says no more.

“Okay,” Angela says, “okay – I will be there as soon as possible. I will be there tomorrow.” 

Angela gets the hospital’s information, Rahal’s personal number; she talks to her colleagues, tells them she must leave; she does not know when she will return. She is available to be reached via her cell –  _ anything, _ she says,  _ if you need anything call me _ .  _ Keep an eye on the children _ , she tells them, and then she is off.  

 

* * *

 

 

Fareeha is in pain. Everything hurts. 

It all hurts. In fairness, or perhaps in just suffering, it has all been hurting for six months. 

She thinks dimly, about this and other things, and presses the button for morphine - already knowing no more will come through the IV. It cannot be activated more than once every thirty minutes so nothing comes, and she is stuck staring blankly at a bouquet of iris flowers, wiggling her toes in pain. 

She does not know who sent the flowers – but they are her favorite. Her mother used to buy them from the market on weekends and set them out on their table. Fareeha looked at them often in her youth as she passed them by, running out to play basketball with her friends. Eating around them and laughing with Ana about how they could never see one another’s face over the bundle. Fareeha used to put them in her mother’s hair when she braided it.

Fareeha has been actively avoiding them for a while now. 

_ “They mean hope and faith, silly girl,” _ Ana had said. When at first, Fareeha had crinkled her seven year-old nose and protested their placement on their perfectly fine kitchen table. 

It is amazing the things Fareeha regrets. She regrets every bad thing she ever said to her mother. She regrets every time they disagreed, even about something as foolish as flowers, and whether a seven year old should like them. Logically, she knows this is foolish, by nature they are not the same person – still, Fareeha would do anything for the opportunity to make her mother proud, just once. For a memory to be filled only with joy, with no regret at the edges.

The door to her room opens a crack and then fully and Fareeha turns her head away from the flowers and as much as she can to see Dr. Angela Ziegler – presumed to be in Iraq – slip in and shut it quietly behind her. 

They watch one another and Angela breathes in deeply and out just as deeply, as if placing herself in the moment. Her eyes are glassy with tears held back, and Fareeha thinks, as she has often thought, that Angela Ziegler is a particular brand of beautiful. 

“ _ Marhaban _ ,” Fareeha says. Her voice wavers a bit because other than humming affirmatives and groaning, she hasn’t much talked since having woken up that afternoon. It is now nearly midnight. 

“Fareeha,” Angela says, “what happened…” 

Fareeha is not sure if Angela actually wants a response, or if she is asking to dispel the awful, stagnate film of discomfort which has fallen over the room. 

“Nothing good,” Fareeha responds, and looks at the place her left arm used to be. Nothing good.

For six months – nothing good. 

She sighs and blinks up at the ceiling. She does not want to look at the flowers, at her arm. She does not want to think about this life; the way it has crumbled, is crumbling a little more each day. She bites her lip to hold in all of the things threatening to spill out and tells herself she is strong.

She has always been strong. Defiant. Firm. She does not cry, even though she thinks it might be nice. She has lived through many hells and still walks. She has lived through her mother’s death and still wakes in the morning, every morning. There are reasons still to smile, and sometimes she does smile, even when she knows there is pain lurking at the corners. It cannot be bad all hours of every day. A day is very long, a life is very long, too.

Angela pulls a chair up to her bed, grabs the remote control for the TV from the side table and flicks on the television. When Fareeha comes back to herself, feels centered, and sends her a questioning look, Angela only smiles faintly in a way that is neither happy nor apologetic. It is comforting though, Fareeha appreciates that. 

“When my parents died,” she says softly, “I watched every movie that I owned; several times, actually. I have found television, books, things that take you elsewhere, are a good distraction. I watch movies often when I am in pain.” 

“Is this your professional advice?” Fareeha says, and it is something like a joke. Angela laughs softly, shakes her head. 

“My professional advice is counseling,” Angela says, and the recommendation is there. Fareeha has thought about it, too. “My personal advice is distraction.”

 

* * *

 

 

The movie is campy and comedic, in places, an adventure story, at its core. Fareeha watches it intently and Angela watches her carefully, for signs of pain and discomfort (this part of her is the doctor, removed and eagle-eyed, always looking for a hitch) until she sees Fareeha close her eyes, and then she looks forward – to the flowers. This part of her is the person, vulnerable and afraid of what could have been.  _ Nearly on the wrong side of the right time. _ She does not know what she would have done if Fareeha …

It does not matter. She wonders why Fareeha’s father is not present, where he is. When the movie ends, Angela shifts.

“Fareeha,” she says softly, perhaps because she thinks Fareeha has fallen asleep. Fareeha hums. For  long, quiet moment neither of them move, or breathe it seems. After a time Angela tells her, softly: “It will get better,” she’s not sure what she is referring to; the pain of the moment, the obstacles of life. All of it, probably. Fareeha sighs. The television flashes credits which illuminate the otherwise dark room.

“To be honest Dr. Ziegler,” says Fareeha, “if this happened a year ago it would have been the worst thing I ever went through,” For a moment, she does not speak. “It is not the worst thing that has happened to me. It is not so bad, now. I am just going to  _ need a hand _ with some things.” 

It takes a moment for the joke to land.

When it does Angela turns sharply on Fareeha. Fareeha’s lips are pulled up into a light smirk – a real genuine sense of mirth behind tired features. Angela is so startled she outright laughs, and Fareeha returns it with a chuckle. 

“I’m going to be _all_ _right_ ,” Fareeha adds; Angela laughs more and maybe she tears up, a little, who can say. (In pure relief – the idea: things will be okay.) “I have been reading many books, some fiction … Occasionally, self-help,” Fareeha tells her, sheepishly. “They all say that it is important to find humor in bad situations.”

“It is good advice,” Angela tells her, honestly, and smiles. “Though I don’t know how much stock I would put in self-help books … there  _ is _ research that supports taking a conscious approach to the world. It is not so much deciding how to feel, but how to approach your feelings. I read a lot about it when I was a child.” It brings the mood down a bit, but not much. They both know what she is referring to. 

“...How did you handle your parent’s death, Angela?” Fareeha asks her quietly.

The have danced around this topic for months. Fareeha, unsure how to breach it. There is something taboo about talking about the deeply ingrained sadness of it; something that makes people uncomfortable. Angela selfishly wishes to talk about her parents often, it makes them real – after so many years, she is worried she will forget small details of them. She knows that each time a memory is recalled, it is distorted a bit. That how she remembers her parents now may not be how they once were … still …

“To be frank? Passively.” Angela replies, honestly, “I loved them so much and I was unable to show it, for months it seemed.” A pause. Angela watches Fareeha, places her hand on the other woman’s bicep, their contrasting skin tones captivate her – the skin is peeling off her forearm, the sunburn. “There is no proper way to grieve, Fareeha.” She tells her. Because is that not the real question? 

She had felt for so long, that she was not displaying her sadness enough. That she had moved on too quickly. She realizes now, she has not moved on at all. She thinks about them all the time. 

“It is hard to process death. Numbness, anger, sadness, disconnect, they all happen, at once, or sporadically, two or three at a time – even now. When they first died, it felt that the bulk of my life was composed of these emotions. Happiness, humor, interest, passion all squeezed into the tiny cracks. Now, the roles are reversed.” Angela says, she feels like she is speaking into air. Things she wishes she had told herself. She does not know if it will help Fareeha. She is not trained in this capacity. Illnesses of the body she has mastered, but this is not the same. “The only real comfort I can offer is this: just as I feel the sadness now, there were times even in the prevailing sadness, where I felt happy.”

“It never goes away…” Fareeha reiterates. Neither of them can name the ‘it’ but they both understand.

“Would you like it to?” Angela asks; Fareeha remains silent. “Would you like to live as though your life is not vastly different than it had been when Ana was here?” Fareeha hums but does not respond. “Do you want to talk about her? About your accident?”

“Yes,” Fareeha confesses.

 

* * *

 

Fareeha explains the fuel line malfunction which had her falling the equivalent of three stories to the ground. How her arm had been crunched by the suit as her full weight and gravity descended on it. When she says she will be alright, she says it with such conviction, Angela believes her. (Her charts confirm that from a physiological standpoint and with a lot of physical therapy, this is true – but Fareeha is strong of mind and so Angela is confident on many fronts.)

When Fareeha talks about Ana, she has a lot to say, and it is clear to Angela that she is the only one Fareeha has been speaking with about this. So she listens mostly, and prompts when appropriate.

It occurs to Angela, at about five in the morning, when the other woman has finally gone to sleep and likely will remain that way for many hours, that Fareeha has become a person she would like very much to hold on to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The flowers are from Ana. Fareeha and Angela can't know this, but as the reader, I think you've earned the privilege of being privy to the info.]
> 
> The idea with this story was to show how grief (and although it hasn't been named yet, depression) travels across time. I don't know if that's something anyone is actually interested in reading, but at the very least, it's cathartic to write. 
> 
> I do appreciate the comments, I'm sorry I haven't responded yet, but I will.
> 
>  
> 
> The chapters after this get lighter and a bit fluffy (also Fareeha's squad shows up).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a computer currently so I've been writing in my phone's notepad. It's not going well ... so that is why I missed last week's chapter. And why this week's is short.

Angela wakes up at eight with four hours of sleep to her name (a fair amount considering the augmentations to her body - the way it no longer requires all of that; science is amazing.) The hospital room is bright with the morning sun streaming through the open blinds, illuminating flecks of dust - like stars, almost, in their solitude, constant motion - before landing on the tiled floor. It's nice that it is all natural and subdued the way only the morning sun seems to be, they've yet to turn on the room's fluorescent lights. It would be too harsh anyway, for now: the world feels soft. Soft, soft, and Angela moving softly through it. Just for a moment. Just for now.

It is the dust that Fareeha is watching when Angela turns toward her. The other woman is starring at it calmly, contemplatively. Her arm is resting over the blanket, her stomach under it; her other shoulder is such that she might have subconsciously moved it to be in a mirrored position. She's propped up on her pillows, looking for all the world like carved marble, like she was meant for that moment and in it she intends to stay.

Angela wonders what she sees in the vacant space; she wonders what she is thinking about. It feels as though it is not really her place to ask, so she doesn't. But she still wonders.

It is strange - being in Egypt, here with Fareeha. It is strange because it feels normal.

Angela coughs into her hand lightly, to let Fareeha know she is awake, and then she stretches out the tight muscles of her neck, oddly coiled from sleeping in a chair.

"How-" Angela stops before she can say 'how are you feeling' because there is nothing in it for Fareeha but grief so she switches, as she often has in moments of insecurity: "you should be asleep..." Fareeha watches her vaguely from behind a curtain of bedhead and Angela gets the impression Fareeha thinks a thousand thoughts for each one she voices. She is beautiful. Angela startles, focuses, reassesses.

"I would like to go back to sleep," Fareeha confesses, like she does not want to say so. Angela smiles, it is small, but real.

"Do so," she says, "I'm going to get some coffee, but I will be back when you awake again."

Fareeha grins at her, shifts into the pillows and does as she says, shutting her eyes.

Angela watches her for just a moment more and then she stands and searches for a cafeteria. She imagines the coffee will be just as bad as it always is in hospitals, but then - it has grown on her over the years.

 

* * *

 

A week after her surgery Fareeha is released from the hospital with instructions on attending physical therapy and no amount of fretting by a young nurse who seems very keen on making sure Fareeha keeps up with her medication and exercises. Perhaps he sees what Angela sees and what Ana no doubt saw: Fareeha neglecting herself for others, for a job, for an excuse to punish herself for things she cannot control and should not try to.

"When do you go back?" Fareeha asks her as they walk slowly towards the elevators. Angela tucks a strand behind her hair and looks forward, her hands grip the handle of Fareeha's chair.

"Wednesday, I think," she replies, honestly. Fareeha turns to smile at her.

"Later than I expected," she says. Angela laughs softly, shakes her head.

"The airfare was cheaper," she jokes. It wasn't, but it's fun to poke at Fareeha.

"Or maybe you just like the fair-haired here," Fareeha responds. Angela rolls her eyes fondly.

"I have to ask," Angela says after a pause. The elevator opens and they step in, press lobby, and wait for it to descend, "why list me as an emergency contact?"

For what feels like a very, very long time, Fareeha does not respond. Angela worries she has offended her; or worse, insinuated that she does not approve of the choice. Angela is about to clarify when Fareeha shrugs.

"You were ... closest," she finally says. "I do not ... talk to many people these days; my mother has always been my contact -" a pause, "when Helix had me list someone, I could only think of you, my father or Jesse - um, McCree. They are in North America, you were not."

"Did I overstep?" She asks.

"Not at all," Angela tells her.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Fareeha does not know what she expected upon leaving the hospital. To be driven home in Angela's rental, or perhaps take the bus - to watch a movie, to order food, maybe, and relax, and overthink as has become her habit of late.

What she does not expect is for her squad to be draped over two of the benches outside of the hospital; laughing. They don't notice her at first. Aizad and Mahmud are yelling at one another, Saleh is smoking a cigarette, watching, chuckling. Captain Khalil is there too, Fareeha does not expect any of this.

It is Okoro who first noticed them, he lifts a metallic hand, which flashes and reflects the sun off of it, in greeting. Seeing the gesture, the others turn and spot her too. Saleh stands, hands wide and broad and welcoming.

Fareeha has, admittedly, been rather distant with them. They are good people - good soldiers - but she took the job with objectives, fleeing demons, and she knowns nearly nothing about them.

"Pharah!" Saleh bellows. Fareeha stands from her chair, she does not need it, free of hospital rules, and hears Angela snort behind her.

"Pharah?" She echoes.

"My call sign..."

"Like Pharaoh and Fareeha? Does your word play never end?" Angela laughs and it is good natured. Fareeha feels warm all over and if it is embarrassment, it is such a minor part she almost doesn't mind.

Her team rushes her then; patting her on the back, smiling. Okoro says 'it is good you are well' and Fareeha feels supremely awkward that they should even care.

"My squad," Fareeha tells Angela. "Aizad, Mahmud, Okoro, Saleh, and my Captain: Khalil."

"Hello there," Angela says to them all.

"And you must be Dr. Angela Ziegler," Khalil grins good natured, "we have heard nearly nothing about you." He lowers his voice here, though everyone can still hear him, "Fareeha isn't much of a talker."

"There is not much to tell," Fareeha replies, not unkind, but unsure. Khalil knew her mother, knew her circumstances prior to recruitment. There is nothing she could say that he would not already be aware of. It hurts to bring attention to these things and it service no one.

"Oh that's not true at all," Khalil states, but says no more. "Are you two well enough for dinner? I'm buying."

"Please say yes," Mahmud interjects, "no one's bought me dinner since my last relationship..."

"-is that really what you want to share?" Aizad laughs.

Fareeha turns to Angela, expecting some sort of discomfort; but Angela is smiling faintly and when she catches Fareeha's eye she shrugs, non-concerned.

So Fareeha says yes. Her team hoots and her captain throws her a look she cannot identify but looks strangely like relief. Like he is concerned for her. Like she is concerned for herself.

Her arm hurts and her heart is heavy and these are her colleagues, not her friends, but when Angela inserts herself into their poking and light-heartedness, Fareeha feels strangely as though she is in flight.

Angela throws a smile over her shoulder as they walk towards the Helix Security van and Fareeha feels a stutter in her chest that makes her think that perhaps she will be okay after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for comments. I will respond soon, but know that I appreciate them.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates every week...


End file.
